Immortal
by Sovereign2
Summary: "I want this arena to immortalize the tributes forever. I want their pain to last a millennium. Their fears and secrets to be set in stone. But most importantly, I want their families to understand how it feels to have someone they love ripped away." - Immortal, the 99th Hunger Games.
1. Monster

**Immortal - 99th Hunger Games**

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_I'm only a man with a chamber who's got me, I'm taking a stand to escape what's inside me._

-**MONSTER **by Imagine Dragons

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**FABLE LECROY  
**_DEPUTY HEADGAMEMAKER _

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Stepping out of the black luxury car carefully, I immediately use my hands as a shield for my hair and head against the torrential downpour of rain. A lightning bolt pierces through the gloomy sky, followed closely by a clap of thunder. I groan. Why on all days?

Thankfully, I'm saved from the most of the weather by one of my employed guards, who passes me a black umbrella to stay under. With my body covered, I reach into the pocket of my waist-coat and draw out the files. Arena information, mutts, game preparations. It all has to be confirmed by the President before we can put the plans into action.

I grumble under my breath as my boots squelch against the muddy path that takes me past rows and rows of pristine white headstones. What I don't understand is why Anastasia sent me to do this. Surely, as newly promoted Head Gamemaker, she should be the one to hand over the details and talk the talk with the President.

I didn't even want to be Deputy Head Gamemaker, I was happy and content with being Head of Muttatations. I've never even really enjoyed the Hunger Games. Of course, they make good watching when I have nothing better to do but I just don't see the point in them; why not just execute some children every year to set an example. Similar procedures, same results but without the hassle.

I suppose the real reason I took the job is because I couldn't afford to reject the offer. Working as a Gamemaker was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, to be in the limelight and climb the social ladder. My old job, an artist, wasn't getting anywhere. Being a Gamemaker means I can show off my creative works without much effort.

The best of the best is a different story though. Being a Head Gamemaker has benefits and privileges, but the negatives vastly outweigh these. It's just too much pressure. You have to control and oversee the whole process, make sure everyone's meeting deadlines and most importantly: design the arena yourself. Seven years I've worked in my current profession, and in that time I've seen two of my bosses crack. Rubik Strom, one of the most famous and brilliant minds in the Capitol, went insane because he couldn't cope. The last I heard of him, he was still rehabilitating in the hospital. Poor bloke. I've always liked him.

I hear a heavy crunch and swivel around, my eyes staring at the man across the graveyard. His back was turned and he crouched near to the ground, holding off the rain with an umbrella similar to my own. This must be him. Aurelian Snow. I've never met him before, although he appears often on TV. I suppose one can expect that, since he is the President after all. But I heard recently that he'd been bed-ridden and suffering from some illness. He got better quick.

Thinking it would be better to get this over with, I leave the safety of the stone path and begin strolling pass the graves, short-cutting across the yard. The rain continues to batter the world around me, and I can't help but question why I'm meeting out here rather than in a nice, warm office somewhere.

Aurelian turns round at my approach, holding a bunch of crimson roses to his chest. His face was grim and dark, with skin taunt and tight. A sharp black goatee hung on his chin, just under the long un-smiling red lips. And that's when I realize something. This man looks different. He can't be the President.

The gears and cogs click and turn in my head, until I stumble upon the answer. Before I can speak however, the man interrupts me in a surprisingly soft, quiet voice for someone who looks so sinister.

"Yes, I do indeed look quite like him, don't I? Unfortunately, it isn't the dashing handsome Aurelian you see before you, just his misshapen twin-brother. Victarion Snow."

My mind seems to go numb, and a chill spreads through me in both fear and awe. This is the man who single-handily extinguished the Mockingjay's flame and saved the Capitol from the vile jaws of the rebel army. He took a risk; signed a pact with District One and Two. If they promised to join our side and break the siege against the Capitol, they would suffer as much as the rest. It worked. We one.

But that's not all. Rumours have been shared for years about Victarion. Rumours that suggest Aurelian is just a puppet for his ways, and Victarion is the power behind the metaphorical throne. Sometimes, their can be no denying it. Victarion ordered the bombing of District Thirteen. Victarion sentenced the Victors to die. Victarion stamped out the last of the rebellion when he took the Girl On Fire's head off.

"Fable? Fable Lecroy. That's you I believe."

His words bring me back into focus. "Ye..Yes," I stutter painfully, "That's me..sir."

Victarion raises his dark black eyebrows. "Their's no need to call me sir, Fable. We are on equal footing here. And to be fair, formalities have always been more of my brother's strong suit. Now, do you understand why I have called you here?" He finishes saying in that calming voice.

I move closer to him, and about to pass him the heavy document of files when his eyes lit up, and his voice suddenly becomes more assertive, and less friendly.

"No, no. Not at the moment. Firstly, you must be wondering why I wanted to have this meeting here, in a graveyard, on such a dark and upsetting day. The answer is quite simple," Victarion stops talking for a second, and brings my attention to the large headstones in front of him with a wide gesture of his arms, "I came here today to visit my family. My family who died in the rebellion."

His eyes knot and only for the briefest of moments, I see a hint of tears in his eyes before they disappear. I don't know what to say. I don't fully understand it myself.

"I'm sorry for your losses, Victarion." I say, with a tone of remorse.

"Don't be. Was it your fault they died? No, I think not." Bending down to his knees, he places a single red rose next to each tombstone and I have the chance to read the name engraved in the white marble. Hadrian. Aphrodite. Coriolanus.

Without any prior alert, Victarion resurfaces to my level again. But this time, a malice and barely hidden rage lies on his face. He places his open palm out, and I immediately pass him the papers without hesitation.

He takes a few minutes to skim and study them before turning back to me.

"I have one single question. Can you guarantee something for me, Fable?"

"Yes?" I reply curiously. But as the words roll off my tongue, I seem to want to pull them back. As if I'm going to be scared for what's to come.

"I want this arena to immortalize the tributes forever. I want their pain to last a millennium. Their fears and secrets to be set in stone. But most importantly, I want their families to understand how it feels to have someone they love ripped away from them."

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**Tribute deaths will be purely based on my own choices and realism. I will promise to give your tribute the death they deserve, and be fully committed to carrying out their separate story arcs from beginning to the end. However, if you do not review then as a writer, I feel like I do not need to continue writing your tributes over tributes that have creators who do review regularly. Finally, it is my greatest disappointment to tell you that your tribute has only 4.16% chance of winning, and so please be prepared for the worst. **

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**Questions:**

**Q. **What did you think of Fable Lecroy?

**Q. **Thoughts on this chapter and my writing?

**Q. **Any clues on the arena?

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**Welcome to Immortal!**

**I'm excited to continue writing this, and I really enjoyed writing this opening chapter for you. Since my last SYOT ultimately failed, I have set myself a high expectation for Immortal. I want to finish this story, and make it to the best quality I can. **

**The next chapter and the blog will come once I have all the tributes sent in, because I only do one-part prologues as I find it much easier and more compact. Many places are still left open, so please send in some tributes!**

**I'd like to say thanks to JabberjayHeart for kindly allowing me the use of his format, which I am trying to replicate but in my own way! And on a side note, please check out his stories.**

**Hope you enjoyed this prologue, and please review! **

**Goodbye**

**-Sovereign.**


	2. Called Out In The Dark

**Immortal - 99th Hunger Games**

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_We were called out to the streets, we were called out in to the towns._

-**CALLED OUT IN THE DARK** by Snow Patrol

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**DESIRE MAGNIOT  
**_DISTRICT ONE MENTOR  
__VICTOR OF_ **_92ND_**

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I can feel their judgmental eyes on the back of my neck as I ascend the stage. I can hear them whisper to each other, spreading the idol gossip and rumors about. It makes my skin crawl and all I want to do is hide from their unwavering gazes. But I can't do that. Fleeing goes up against every one of my own rules. I was born to kill and bred to be a fighter. I'll stand my ground.

Carefully, I reach the top of the stage and turn around, glancing down at the sullen blonde-haired boy behind me. Cosmo Troyes. Victor. Career. Yet he doesn't resemble one at all. His face is void with emotion and his body seems to be nothing but a sack of bones and flesh. But the worst part are his eyes. They say that eyes are windows to the soul. Cosmo's soul is nothing. It's bleak and empty without a glint of anything. I shudder.

I remember last year when he ran up to the stage with a wide smiling grin and triumphant yells at managing to volunteer. Such a contrast from now. I should ignore him. Despise him even. A real Career's mind wouldn't of broke and cracked as easy as his had. Yet, I just can't bring myself to hate someone who went to hell and back. His arena had been purposefully designed to drive everyone crazy.

Cosmo and twenty-three others had been placed into an arena with nothing but white rooms and white walls. No colour. No change. Screams and screams were played into the arena all night and day. Traps crafted to resemble sponsor parachutes spewed poisonous gas that induced mind-melting fear hallucinations. Mutations that resembled family members and friends ran around the arena crying for help, leading to each tribute into a hazardous goose chase.

Just watching his Game's was enough to send shivers down my spine; someone who didn't get scared easily. Therefore, as much as I try and ignore it, I've always had a soft spot for Cosmo. I wonder how long that will last when we mentor together. I would have picked someone else to help me, but District One has always made sure to follow the traditions set down by the Training Centre. The most recent Victors will always be responsible for mentoring.

Sighing, I tenderly reach out and grab Cosmo's hand. Their is no reaction as I pull him up and guide him to our set seats. I groan as my eyes glance over my two over victors, already placid and comfortable in their positions. Rosario Astor, the oldest District One victor and arguably the most powerful. He controls Training and he can trace his lineage back to the famous Gloss and Cashmere. I don't look at him. I can't. The crowd will see.

So instead, I take the place next to Serene Petros, who gives me a sickly false smile. I ignore her however, and focus my attention on dragging Cosmo down next to me. His eyes wander but he doesn't say a word.

I compose myself with another sign before pulling up my head and looking straight forward, pass the giggling figure of our escort, Sidnes, and into the crowd of blonde-haired teenagers. Some point at me and some whisper to each other. Mainly the girls but I don't miss some of the grins and sniggers that pass over the boy's faces. I constantly remind myself that they can talk all they like. Lies can't affect me.

But their not lies, are they Desire? No, everything they say is the truth. Maybe twisted a little but still. My reputation is ruined forever. I'll always be remembered as the victor who slept with Rosario to earn her place in the Games, because she wasn't good enough at training. At first, I thought my secret was safe. Rosario promised he would not tell a soul and so did I. But after I won, during the Victor's Ball, I met the stony-faced Victarion Snow. He pulled me away from the crowd and whispered into my ear that he knew my secret. He wasn't lying.

I got back to the District and practically everyone knew. It's been seven years and they can't stop talking about. A couple of days after emerging back home, I found the letter on my doorstep addressed to me. It read '_No one can win without giving up a price'. _I understood within a second. My secret was exposed. That was my price. Victarion Snow doesn't let anyone go free without his own prize. I found out sometime later that each Victor had received the same letter once they won. Guess I'm not the exception.

Suddenly, Sidness prances past me and brings me out of my stupor and into the real world. He reaches the male reaping bowl in a flash and his hands dive into the mix of slips. Nails scraping to find the tribute sent to their death. It's useless however. Everyone knows we already have our volunteer lined up. This is just for show.

He picks one out and dances back to the microphone, bright purple hair whipping against the wind.

"Medallion Smite." He calls out with a unnaturally high-pitched voice.

A broad, grim looking boy dispatchs himself from the crowd slowly. But before he can place two steps in front of him, a voice rings out from the seventeen year old section, "I volunteer!".

The voice belongs to a lanky, skinny ginger-haired boy. He isn't our volunteer. My gaze locks onto his sprinting face. Argent Vadis. Middle-child of the famous yet corrupt Vadis family. I wouldn't say that to their faces though unless you wanted to suffer. I only remember him because I notice his resemblance to his mother, Delphine. I've always admired her beauty.

But yet, as Argent reaches the stage, I notice that he doesn't have the traits of attractiveness that run in his siblings. He's too skinny and his face is too milky pale for someone living in the sunlight of One. He doesn't look strong even. But he has all the right things to suggest he's quick and agile. That could work in his favor.

Sidnes gets Argent to shout out his name, but nothing else escapes his cocky firm smile. The escort looks upset at the lack of chatter, but moves onto the female ball quickly.

Another random name is thrown out. But I don't bother to pick it out. Instead, I catch sight of the bobbing red hair of our volunteer. Empire Vilitori shouts that she's the volunteer in a aharsh, angry tone before strutting up to the stage fiercely. Her wavy crimson hair cascades down past her shoulders, covering up her pale neck and freckles. Strange. Both tributes seem to have broke the mold in appearance this year, can they break anything else?

With the names both called, Sidnes wraps up proceedings. He attempts to get our two tributes to shake hands but Empire just crosses her arms and smiles sarcastically whilst Argent waves his middle finger directly in the brightly-coloured mess of our escort's face. I admire their rebelliousness as they both walk straight into the Justice Building, refusing the help of the Peacekeepers.

I snap my fingers and Cosmo stands to attention. I'll think I'll take Empire this year. She seems difficult to deal with. I smile as I realize im kidding myself...Argent is no better and Cosmo can't do anything to help them. If District One wants another Victor, then it's down to me to get them one.

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**FLUX KINGDOM**  
_DISTRICT THREE MENTOR  
__VICTOR OF **76TH**_

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I quickly stash the small notebook in my pocket and away from the prying eyes of Jubilee, the notoriously sordid escort for the District. She stares at me angrigly before raising her chin in a pompous manner and turning back around to face the slowly growing town square. She wouldn't understand anyway. No one does but myself.

I wonder what the first thing that pops into the head of a Capitolite when someone mentions District Three? That's right; a bunch of nerds crammed into the tiniest part of Panem. All childlike glass-wearing teenagers who can't beat the Hunger Games. I take some personal joy at the fact that I'm a victor. I beat the odds and shoved it in their ugly faces.

But it was hard after the arena. The troubles and pressure I faced nearly broke me. Winner of the 76th Hunger Games, the first Victor of a new generation of "perfect champions" is what Victarion and Aurelian Snow both told me the evening of my victory. If I messed up, then their would be hell to pay for me and my family. So I accepted their conditions and their rules. I was forced into their carefully crafted celebrity limelight. Victarion said I was the top of my game, a perfect victor for the even perfecter world he ruled. I knew better though, I was the first of his conquests. My soul was crushed and broken by his heavy iron fist, always destined to be controlled until my time was up. Even to today.

My notebook in my pocket and my journals at home help me to forget all of that. Their full of drawings, paintings, collages...the artistic vibe just consumes my mind and makes me feel the need to cover each blank empty piece of paper. I figured out this mannerism quite quickly. The white pages represent my past and the things that haunt me, and destroying them with something I enjoy makes the memories go away. I have wooden sculptures in my room on a shelf, carved by hand and each one representing someone who deserves to be remembered. The tributes in my Games. Each and every one of them, from my allies Orion and Helix, to the sadistic Lucifer. I don't care what they did in their files, no one's fate is to be forgotten.

Some people in this District find my talent distasteful and that's why I like to keep everything hidden as much as possible. Their into the traditional way of the District: technology, mathematics, physics, inventions and engineering. They don't like people who are different. Some of the adults in the crowd now look at me with a mixture of disgust, superstitious and pity as if I had been born in the wrong district. You would never realise how many parents were so harsh in this place, despite the fear looming over their heads.

Jubilee shrieks as she's nearly knocked to the ground by a rushing figure, and suddenly I'm face to face with the bright and wild Neon Synth. She won two years ago at the age of fourteen and she doesn't seem to have changed one bit. Her hyper-like behavior and constant overwhelming happiness gives me the creeps despite how much I like Neon. It makes me feel uncomfortable to see someone so positive and joyful despite the fact they live in Panem, and even worse; suffered through the Hunger Games. I've always had the suspicion that something's up with Neon, but I've never voiced my opinion.

"Flux! Flux! Are you excited?," she blurts out in a rush, a sickly sweet smile on her rosy red face. She doesn't give me a chance to say anything before she continues speaking, answering her own question, "Oh, who am I kidding! I bet you are! I sure I am! Oh, please, please can I have the girl this time? I have a good feeling. Please."

Her dark brown eyes open wider in anticipation, giving her a look that resembles a begging dog that are usually found on the streets of Three. How could I resist that?

"Sure you can, sweetheart. Now, come sit next to me. Look's like were about to begin." I reply to her. She squeezes into the seat next to me just as Jubillee takes a step onto the podium.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Three! Isn't this such a wonderful time of the year?" She asks giddily. A mixture of faces stare back at her. Anger and tearful the most popular. Yet they all share something in common: silence. No one makes a word as Jubilee stands their waiting for a positive response that will never come.

"Oh, well some people are grumpy today! Shall we get on with the show, females first I think!" I sigh, her attitude makes me want to hit her in the face. But that's not something I do.

She strolls over to the first glass bowl clumsily, not being able to walk in the huge pink high heels on her foot. I will never understand capitol fashions. Finally, Jubilee manages to snake her way to the place she wants to be and pulls out a white slip with a name that one person will not want to hear.

"Data Fieldler! Come on up and claim your prize."

Two distinct cries are heard from the crowd, but nothing happens. Silence persists until Jubilee cries out the name again. Where is the girl? The possibility that she's dead crosses my mind, yet I realize that every single citizen is always watched and their details recorded. If someone was dead, the Peacekeepers would know.

Jubilee seems to begin to panic at the thought of her precious procedures ruined, whilst Peacekeepers comb the town square agressively, looking for the mysterious girl who can't be found. A smug smile makes an appearance on my face, how funny it is to watch the Capitol be beat. Neon pokes me in the shoulder, looking confused and wanting answers. I give her only a shrug.

Then suddenly, the sound of scuffling and shouts are heard from the entrance to one of the side streets, and a red and opal girl with straight cropped brown hair and light blue eyes and skin is dragged into the square, attempting to struggle out of the lock the two new Peacekeepers have on her arms. They let her go, Data flying forward near the steps.

She doesn't make any move to escape, which is what everyone is anticipating. But instead, purposefully takes over a minute to walk up the stairs. However, after the heavy swing of a Peacekeeper's gun narrowly misses the back of her head, she speeds up and reaches Jubilee. The Peacekeeper isn't done with her, and catches her arm once again to ensure she doesn't run off. She struggles for a moment, but the man whispers something to her ear and she falls sullen, face awkwardly looking down at the floor.

I like this girl and my gut tells me that I should mentor her. But I promised Neon, who looks increasingly happy at the prospect of mentoring the eighteen year old despite being younger than her. I cross my arms and glance at the boys section, wondering which one of them will be reaped and if their be ever able to outshine Data and her antics.

"Irwin Caster! Please come up, let's hope you aren't hiding too."

She's proven wrong however, as a tall and skinny boy separates himself from the seventeen year old boy section. He strides up to the stage with no emotion visible whatsoever, which is strange. However, just before he turns his back to me and stands still next to Jubilee, ignoring her dubious attempts to contact with him, I notice the expression on his face.

No anger. No upset. Nothing really, except the look everyone in District Three gets when their busy focusing on something. Calculating. Intruigued by his peculiar nature, I watch carefully as Irwin takes a quick glance at Data and then me and Neon in turn. Busy in concentration, but what exactly is he thinking about?

* * *

**KINSEY LOCKET**  
_DISTRICT FIVE MENTOR  
__VICTOR OF _**_84TH_**

* * *

Taking the one lonely seat on the stage, I glance at Mayor Ace; an old 'annoying' women who seems to never die. She's been the mayor of Five since before I was born, and even then she was over thirty-five years old. She grins at me awkwardly and I return the gesture with a hard, stone-cold glare. I don't like interacting with people once. Well, to be honest, I've never really liked many people either.

Being reaped was a blessing, even though I saw it as a death sentence back then. It helped me get out of the dirty house I was living in, and away from the poverty and disease-ridden neighbors. The kids on my street always wanted to play with me, whilst I would rather spend my time alone experimenting with several different chemicals 'borrowed' from the local factories. They all had fleas and just looking at their un-washed hair and clothes made my skin crawl. I even had less money then some of them, yet I still managed to find the time to keep my personal self clean.

Now, I don't have to worry about these kids anymore. Surprisingly, I still remember their names. Wesley was reaped for the 83rd Hunger Games, a year before mine, and died at twenty-fourth place. Such a sad excuse for someone who 'claimed' to be strong out on the streets. The twins, Copp and Zink died in the factories a few months back after some vandals set fire to one of the buildings. As far as I know, Marie is still skulking around District Five. I haven't spoken since I went into the Hunger Games, when she tried to say goodbye to me at the Justice Building. I told the Peacekeepers to throw her out.

Some people might call me harsh, or cold-hearted. Maybe their all just ignorant idiots. I'm the living embodiment of reality. In this society, people don't get along and to be brutally honest, it's better to not form emotional attachments no matter what they say. People die almost every day, and theirs at least a ninety-percentage chance you know that person. Parents die and children get reaped. It's the truth and I believe District Five should start to change this fate, rather than embrace it.

Even now, as I look upon the rows and rows of crying or nervous or sullen faces, I wonder how I'm ever going to mentor someone to glory. Their useless and almost every year they die at the bloodbath. Sometimes I don't even bother to remember their names. Something needs to be done, and someone needs to spearhead the movement.

That person is me. Kinsey Locket. I'll be the figurehead behind the idea. That's what the District will believe anyway. When the truth is that I made a deal with someone. On my Victory Tour, when I was once again visiting the Capitol, Victarion Snow invited to me to a private meeting. There, he explained how he admired my harshness and down-to-earth personality. Now I realize that it was all obvious flattery to get me to do what he wanted, but I was still only a teenager then; susceptible to any kinds words thrown on me. He wanted me to introduce a small idea to District Five. An idea of creating a Training Centre, an idea that will make our tributes Careers.

Nothing's working though and although I don't like to admit it, I'm scared of what he could do to me. He's ruined other victor's life, and the only reason he's saved me from his wrath is because of this. But how am I going to accomplish the goal? Mayor Ace won't budge from her position of totally refusing to sign the contract for a Training Centre. The citizens themselves are never going to like the idea without persuasion, and I've never had that ability. I need a tribute who supports me, who's fresh and innovative and can reach the Victor spot. It'll inspire them.

Speaking of tributes, our escort arrives on the stage in a silvery-white dress. I don't recognize her and it looks like she's new. Good, every-time the old one opened her fat mouth I wanted to slap it shut. This one seems different though, her place is quite plain without any extremes of makeup or colour. Her expression is one of a mixture of pity and regret. An escort with compassion..how strange.

She introduces herself as Lotus, before immediately making a beeline towards the male's glass bowl, giving her the impression that she wants this done as quickly as possible. I can't help but agree with. I wish they just read the names and be done with it, rather than do this entire spectacle.

"Ryo Te-!" Before Lotus can finish the name calling, a shout echoes across the square, cutting her off.

"I volunteer!" I smile as I hear the words I'd never thought to hear. A large, broad boy steps through the crowd and strides up to the stage, his muscle mass prominent behind the hoodie that covers his head and face. This is just excellent. I can see this boy winning. We might have a chance. As he climbs the steps, I make out his face in the shadows of the hood. Dark, peircing eyes stare back at me in a look that seems to be angled towards frustration and anger. His mouth whistles to a tune, whilst in his hand lies a small half-eaten apple. He reaches Lotus and throws it behind the stage, before shoving his hands into his pockets.

The immediate impression nearly everyone get is that this boy is a freak or he's just plain mysterious. Instead, I notice an opportunity in him. Lotus asks his name and he replies quickly: Cassius Swift. Even his name seems formidable, like something of a warrior. He'll help me towards my plan, but right now I need to focus on how to keep him alive and wonder who is partner will be. Let's hope I can work with two good tributes, rather then one.

Lotus slowly walks over to the female bowl after introducing Cassius and plucks a slip from the top. She reads it aloud without hesitation:

"Aislyn Genset."

Instead of a shout, we get a cry and I groan. A girl, this time from the fifteen age section, begins the dreaded walk towards her doom. Long, layered brown hair dances in the wind and her brown eyes seem to scream the emotion terrified, however Aisyln holds it up and for a moment I admire her before instantly regretting it. Her strong features and olive skin do little to hide the tears that now roll down her face.

Inside I scream in frustration. She's not getting any help now. Everyone always seem's to break down, it's just pathetic. I watch as Lotus is about to comfort her with an arm, when she realises that her job is not to console them and instead starts to nervously fiddle with the microphone. Cassius looks up at the sniffling girl, and reaches out his hand towards hers.

What is he doing? Don't help the crying girl, that won't help you get sponsors at all! But he continues to gesture his hand out, palm stretched open. Aislyn nervously shys away from him, but eventually places her tiny hands into his big paws. He lifts it up in triumph of them both, and for the first time ever, District Five's reapings end with a smattering of applause.

* * *

**BRETT** **CASTEL**  
_DISTRICT SEVEN MENTOR  
__VICTOR OF **96TH  
**_

* * *

Pain shoots through me but I ignore it, carefully tracing the red, twisted scars on my wrist with a single finger. I've mentored for the past three years and seen a total of six tributes die. When their cannons sounded and their faces were shown in the sky, guilt knotted around my heart like a rope. Yet, although it sounds in-humane, I didn't care. No matter how much I willed myself to mourn for them, the remorse never lasted long.

The truth is, watching them die wasn't so bad as my own experience. I shiver as my mind flashes back to that single week. Such a short amount of time, but those seven days felt like a lifetime. And for some people, they were. The Capitolites might see my scars as a medal of honour; I went into the arena and didn't come out in a wooden box. If they were clever though, they would realize that I didn't acquire scars on my arms during any fights, only on my chest and my back.

I continue to pass my finger over each red mark, counting them up in my head. Twenty-four. Twenty-four for each tribute killed. I carved these scars into my flesh in the aftermath of my victory, when every night the visions and the emotions came flooding back. I didn't want to live anymore, but it wasn't easy to die. Cameras had been installed in my new home, and Peacekeepers always patrolled the street outside. Suicide wasn't an option. Instead, my fate is to suffer until death's warm embrace comes naturally.

A large, rough hand is placed on my shoulder and I look up to see the concerned eyes of Terrence Aspen, my fellow victor and my mentor in more ways then one. Embarrassed, I quickly cover up my exposed wrist with the sleeves of my baggy shirt. My action is pointless however, as Terrence gives me an understanding look before sitting down in the cushioned chair next to mine.

He's always been helpful, all the way back to the early days. Living only next door, he always came to the need of my parents when I needed to be kept calm. I had night terrors, horrible dreams that made me wake up in delusional madness, screaming and clawing at my face. My parents were always panicked, having no idea what to do in these situations. Luckily, Terrence had suffered the same as me, and knew instantly what to do.

Our friendship was non-existent during my Games despite him being my mentor, but the night terrors were where the bond grew. He's protected me, cared for me, laughed with me and kept me sane this entire time, just as he was fighting his own demons at the same time. Terrence never personally told me about his private life, but nor did he need to. His history is his own business, and if he want's it to stay buried then that's his choice. Prying into his past would be something a friend would never to do. I can't afford to lose Terrence. He's the only thing stopping me from descending back into chaos.

A shadow passes over me and my eyes clench in fear. A reflex action that I haven't lost. I relax however, when the shadow reveals itself to be only the figure of the district's escort, the notoriously sly Yara. She looks at me and Terrence, her face a perfect expression of rage and anger. She looks like she's about to say something, but the nervous crowd gathering in front causes her to forget about us luckily. For some reason, she has some sort of personal vendetta against District Seven. It's probably because she's stuck in a District whose tributes are infamous for never getting out of the bloodbath alive. Strange, considering that apparently before the rebellion, we had some of the strongest non-Career tributes around. I suppose we've just forgotten how to win. You can't teach an old dog new tricks..

Yara finally decides to start the reaping, spitting on the ground before out of frustration at the apparent lack of focus in the crowd. Before she trots over to the bowls however, she decides to read an extract out of the Treaty of Treason. What a surprise, she's always being tied closely to the Capitol and the President's family. Rumors are going around that she use to bed Aurelian. I wouldn't be surprised. After all these years of knowing Yara from mentoring, she still scares the living daylights out of me. They're is just something about her that's terrifying, I just can't put my finger on it.

After finishing, in a quick flash she's already at the male reaping bowl and clutching a paper slip in her hand. She reads the name effortlessly, and my hands begin to shake at the prospect of leading another teenager to their death.

"Sher Micran!"

The name instantly clicks in my head, but I can't quite put a face to the name until a kid appears from the relieved faces. He towers above the rest, with short black curly hair. His skin is pale and everything about him just tingles with suspicion. As he gets closer, I notice his blue and gray eyes aren't thick with emotion, but instead are blank like this was just a major nuisance.

I want to get up and shake him. To make him realise that this is serious, and that he's most likely to die. But that's when I suddenly remember how I recognize his name. He's the strange kid, the one who has an obsession with bizarre things that happen around the District. The Peacekeepers have tried blaming of the events on him, but there's no evidence to support their arrest. He's just a weirdo that turns up after something bad happens, with a keen interest to know what caused it.

Yara doesn't bother to even offer any words like other escort's do, but instead just moves straight onto the girls. Sher is a mirror of her actions, he's tapping his foot impatiently and although I can't see his face, he's giving off an aura that suggests boring. I instantly connect with Terrence, and mouth to him that I don't want Sher as a tribute. He nods.

"Stacia Kyatt."

Yara finishes smoothly and I bite my lip with nervous energy as I scan the crowd for my tribute. A ripple occurs in the sixteen-year old section, and a slim-built girl with red and round cheeks stands their in terror. But in a few moments, she's back to reality and a sudden change takes over. Long dark-brown curls of hair bounce up and down as she enthusiastically begins to strut up to the stage. She flashes smiles and waves to members of the audience happily.

When she reaches the stage, the first thing she does is reach straight for Yara. The escort flinches as Stacia's arms embrace her into a tight hug. Then, the girl leaves Yara with a look of shock and disgust on her white face and hugs Sher. He doesn't react that much, biting his lips and keeping still. Stacia feigns upset at Sher's lack of kindness, but quickly recovers herself. Mine and her eyes meet, and she gives me a wide grin. But her eyes convey something else. Fear.

* * *

**AMBLE** **KNOX**  
_DISTRICT NINE MENTOR  
__VICTOR OF **88TH**_

* * *

It's tough being the only victor of one district. Everyone always looks up to me as some wise figure or supportive guardian. In reality, I'm neither. But I always put on a brave face for the crowds and the cameras. It's what keeps hope alive in this damp and slowly rotting place. District Nine has always been a place of depression and worry. Much of the people here live in poverty. Everytime I go outside, all I see is stick like figures and gaunt skeletal faces.

The worst are the little children. Children that should be having fun and being happy. Instead, they are just the figureheads of sadness and emotional distress. Their worked and worked almost as much as the adults. Sweeping the grain fields with scythes like a tiny, toy soldier army. They shouldn't live like this. But they do.

I mingle with the crowds now, instead of being up on my seat. I pat the anxious adults on the back, and plant little kisses on the cheeks of the smallest children. I hug the young teens and encourage the older ones. Repeating the same words over and over again. It's all right. Your not going to get reaped. It's going to be ok

It's heartbreaking doing this, that knowing deep down whatever you say or do isn't going to save that certain someone from a deadly fate. Two tributes, one victor, and I'm the only mentor. How am I going to choose which one lives or dies? It's an impossible choice to make. Yet if I don't decide, they could both die. The District is counting on me to bring someone home and the pressure is unbearable. Eleven year's since I've won and I've seen ten pairs come and go. Some with spirit, some with strength, and some with nothing. I tried helping them, and I failed.

I continue to sweep the poor crowds as I become closer and closer to the stage. I hand out money to anyone I can give it too, and I place apples in the hands of the children. This is what I do every single year. Because this is me, atoning for my endless sins. Behind the enthusiasm, kindness and smiling face; all I am is just a nervous wreck. These people can't find out what I did to them. Their hate me forever. And their grandchildren will hate me. After all, I could have been the one that plunged them into poverty.

I stole from them. It was an obsession. Once I started, it was hard to let go. At first, I did it to help my family but soon it became something I wanted to do. Something I liked doing. Whilst my family rose away from poorness, everyone else just seemed to fall and fall. I began to adore that feeling. The feeling of being better than everybody else. I stole their life's away and added years to mine.

But then everything came crashing down. I was reaped at seventeen. The female tribute. I had no hope. Then I arrived in the Capitol and I saw my life in an entire different perspective. Seeing the wealth and riches of the Capitolites and the countless lavish homes and food made me sick to the stomach. I realized I was acting like these disgusting people. I needed to stop. It wasn't as easy as that though. But the Hunger Games taught me eventually that what I did was wrong. I came back to Nine changed.

For years now I've been terrified that my secret might work its way into the District from outside sources. The President and his shady twin brother have been known to totally ruin other Victor's lives. I'm blessed to having gone this long without them targeting me. Hopefully, everything can stay that way. Deep down, I know it won't but at least I can try to keep it hidden for as long as possible. Maybe until I'm dead and buried.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around, expecting the wide eyes of another child. Instead, the blunt face of a Peacekeeper stares back at me. He points at the stage with a grunt of frustration, not bothering to say anything. The escort, Iris, is passionately waggling her finger at my chair. I guess it's time to start. I submerge out of the audience, climbing the steps to take the only seat. Once again, I'm reminded of my dilemma. It would be so easy if I could just share the burden with someone else.

The thought makes me eager to find out who the tributes are, hoping against hope that one of them will be able to beat the odds stacked against them. I expect Iris to head straight to the male reaping bowl like she does every year. But instead, she totally breaks against tradition by taking a slip out of both the bowls. She's doing them at the same time? That's different. I'm pretty sure its against the rules as well. Then I have to remind myself that Iris isn't the brightest spark.

"Evie Teal and Ric Sow!"

The twin names resonate across the small, enclosed space. Something catches me eye and I face towards the girls sixteen-year old section. The crowd parts, willingly opening up a path for the reaped tribute. Three girls stand in the middle. A girl with a round-shaped face, average build and dark-way brown hair, who must be Evie, is pushed by two others. Evie's face is drained white and she's completely shocked. The other two continue to push her towards her doom, with no sympathy or worry on their features.

My fingers clench into a fist as I watch Evie accept her fate and walk slowly towards the stairs. Strangled cries sound from the edge of the crowd, but I can't pinpoint the location. At the sounds, Evie begins to break down, her face now a wash of tears and fear. How could those girls do that to her? Push her away from them like she was nothing. It makes me sick.

Evie reaches the stage at the same time as our male tribute, a little twelve year boy with bright auburn hair. Ric stands their timidly for a second, before tears burst out of his eyes too. A loud symphony of cries and whimpers is all that is heard, and I can not stop the sigh from escaping my lips. Looks like Nine is going to have to wait another year if they want any hope of victory.

* * *

**OPHELIA CLEMENTINE**  
_DISTRICT ELEVEN MENTOR  
__VICTOR OF **87TH**_

* * *

I cough heavily, attracting the fleeting looks of the people at the front of the crowd. They take no notice however, and continue to nervously wait to find out who will meet their demise this year. Everyone in Eleven has already heard that I'm ill, that I'm dying from some incurable disease. Most don't care and I like that. I don't need pity because this is an escape, whilst everyone else still has to suffer.

Slowly and carefully, I'm escorted to my seat by two bored looking Peacekeepers. I wish they would let me do these simple things by myself, but apparently I'm too weak to move. It annoys me and sometimes I just feel like hitting one of my two "shadows" as I've come to call them, since they follow me everywhere on orders. But then again, I can't really deny the fact that I'm not full of strength. I'm just over thirty and yet I'm as slow as an elder. That's what Panem does to you, folks.

Just looking at the rows upon rows of children, I wonder what it would be like to young again. To feel youth and energy flowing through my veins once more. I have to scold myself. I'm even speaking like an old person now. That's not a good image for a Victor. I'm supposed to be a beacon of championship. But in fact, I'm the opposite. If I was to enter the arena again, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't get past the bloodbath.

I flinch as my mind flashes back to my Games. I still remember every detail. The hot, scorching desert that seemed to go on for forever. My sweet Raul, my ally and my district partner; who sacrificed himself so I could live. He was torn apart by the sand-coloured crocodiles. They should have gone for me, he should have lived. My victory is wasteful.

Technically I shouldn't be mentoring, but since I'm the only victor it's my duty. It's a pain of ass. I'm sick. I'm tired. Yet I still have to care for two tributes, that may or may not die. What's the point? I can't help them, I know that. Sponsors won't listen to me and my advice isn't golden. I have to just work with what the tributes offer, but in the past, that's been very little.

The sound of heels against metal and I twist my head around to find the escort, Mercedes, staring at me with wide eyes. Before I can stop her, she's crouching down next to me and whispering in my ear. Her voice has a nasal, brittle quality which makes me want me to clamp my hands over my head.

"Clementine, your looking excellent today if I may say so. Well, better than you usually look, right?". She says in a sickly, sweet tone. Her red lips twist into a nasty smile, and I begin to feel increasingly uncomfortable as she prolongs our interaction.

"Thankyou." I reply, and I feel stupid for accepting a thinly-hidden insult. She chuckles slightly, before standing back up on her long legs.

"Oh, how rude! Where's the compliment for me? We have plenty of time together this year, so I suggest you learn some manners, missy. Right, now you just sit here like a ghoul whilst I get on with the show. Ok?"

All I do is nod, and she smiles once again at my submission. I want to stand up to her, but I can't will myself. My feet are frozen to the ground and my hands are heavy with reluctance. Mercedes swings around and begins talking through the microphone, hurling words that describe how much she loves this time of the year.

Finally after a whole five minutes of her constant chattering, she decides to pick the female first. All of the girls tense in fear and worry, the same feeling that I felt when I was in their position. After a long delay of picking the slip, Mercedes takes one and gets ready to reveal the slip by placing herself in a ridiculous dramatic pose.

"Give a loud cheer for...Ziera Praust."

Loud gasps echo from everyone's mouth and they almost in unison turn to face a frail, golden brown skinned little girl. She stands there, her bottom lip quivering in fear. She begins to walk to the stage, and everyone points and whispers to themselves. I must be more out of the loop then I've previously thought, because I have no idea what the commotion about Ziera is all about.

Once she reaches the stage, I get a closer look at the tiny girl. Her face is almost void but adorable, like a cute little pup. I expect her to start crying, but instead she stands their very strongly. I thought I was imagining it, but a hint of joy passes over her face at being reaped.

Mercedes pats Ziera's shoulder before pulling out the male's slip and reading it aloud:

"Tytos Cordira is our male tribute!"

Before anyone can step out of the crowd however, a shout plucks at my ear. In a quick sprint, a boy with tanned skin and dark black hair is at the stage. Mercedes looks shocked at the smile plastered on the boy's face, like he'd been waiting all his life for his moment. She hands him the microphone and he snatches it out of her hand eagerly, before shouting out his name and his purpose in one smooth sentence:

"I'm Harren Kedira, and I volunteer."

* * *

**Tribute deaths will be purely based on my own choices and realism. I will promise to give your tribute the death they deserve, and be fully committed to carrying out their separate story arcs from beginning to the end. However, if you do not review then as a writer, I feel like I do not need to continue writing your tributes over tributes that have creators who do review regularly. Finally, it is my greatest disappointment to tell you that your tribute has only 4.16% chance of winning, and so please be prepared for the worst.**

* * *

Questions:

Q. Out of these twelve tributes, which are your favorites from a first impression point of view?

**Q. **Which of the mentors did you like the most?

**Q. **What did you think of my writing?

* * *

**An update after nearly two months!**

**First of all, I'm really sorry for the long hiatus and I'm going to try and not let it happen again. I wrote the first half of this chapter during October, but because of exams I haven't had the time to write the second half until this week. Furthermore, I still don't have a laptop and I'm only able to write because I'm consequently burrowing family member's computers. Expect prolonged waits between updates at least until Christmas.**

**Secondly, I had some trouble with this chapter and I apologize if I did not portray your tribute like you expected. Reaping's are repetitive and a big challenge for me, so my writing might be slightly bad compared to other chapters. The good news is that the Reapings are over, and the next chapter you will see the remaining twelve tributes on the Train Rides from the perspective of the other mentors.**

**Thirdly, one of the main reasons I took so long to update and the main reason for the blog not being included in this chapter, is because I had trouble with receiving tributes. I still need the female from District 8, so I would appreciate it if anyone could spend some time creating another tribute to fill the place. It would be a big help!**

**As always, I love to receive reviews because of the encouragement and constructive criticism. So please review!**

**Goodbye!**

**-Sovereign**


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